


Truth, Lies and In-Between

by DoctorSyntax



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Coda, Episode: s05e01-02 Redux, F/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23831557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorSyntax/pseuds/DoctorSyntax
Summary: It reminds him of the first time she invited herself over. Idly he wonders if she’s here to drop another bomb, or if she’s here to stumble through an official end to what they had.Like he hadn’t assumed it was over when she was willing to accuse him of treason and espionage.
Relationships: Dana Scully/Walter Skinner
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	Truth, Lies and In-Between

**Author's Note:**

> Technically a follow-up to [Fathomless](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6661915), but can be read as a stand-alone! Title and intro quote is from Kenny Wayne Shepard's "Blue on Black".

_blind, but now I see  
truth, lies and in-between  
wrong can't be undone  
slipped from the tip of your tongue_

_whisper on a scream  
doesn't change a thing  
doesn't bring you back_

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*

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Skinner wipes his hands on a dishtowel before grabbing the ringing landline. “Hello?” he says, and is only mildly surprised to hear the voice that answers.

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“Sir, may I come over?”

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“Of course,” he says, as neutrally as possible. “But I thought you were back tomorrow, would you rather make an appointment for the morning?”

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Scully’s hesitation tells a very specific story.

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“No, this is something I’d rather discuss privately.”

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“I understand. Please feel free to come by at your earliest convince.”

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“Thank you,” she says. “I’ll see you soon.” He’s not surprised when she hangs up without waiting for a response.

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For a moment he stops and thinks. Is it possible that she’s coming over for… that? No. She’s well again, she has a life to live. Far more likely that she’s come over the discuss something related to work—to her medical leave, perhaps. She’s used the full amount of the weeks with full pay, but perhaps she or her doctors have decided she should take more time at a reduced rate of coverage. So he turns back to the dishes he’d been doing before she called. When he’s finished with that, he unlocks the front door, pours a finger of whiskey, washes his face, and settles down on the couch with a book.

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He’s barely finished a chapter and taken a sip of his whiskey when the front door opens.

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Scully slips in with a slight grin, and when she turns to shut the door she locks it, too. “You should keep this locked,” she says. “Never know what kind of unsavory characters might make their way through the front door.”

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It’s almost the kind of joke he’d expect from Mulder, and not exactly the opening salvo he’d expected from her. He’s barely seen her smile for nine months, not that she was exactly free with them before her cancer diagnosis, either. Skinner clears his throat slightly as he moves to take her coat. “I’ll take my chances.” She half turns to allow him to slip off her coat, and that more than anything else makes him wonder just what exactly she’s here for. 

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“Have a seat, Scully,” he says, not sure if he should go for _Agent_ or _Dana_. Her face betrays no indication. “Would you like something to drink?”

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“No, thank you,” she says, and awkwardly sits. It reminds him of the first time she invited herself over. Idly he wonders if she’s here to drop another bomb, or if she’s here to stumble through an official end to what they had.

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Like he hadn’t assumed it was over when she was willing to accuse him of treason and espionage.

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He takes the seat across from her, maintaining as best he could the power dynamic they need to resume tomorrow. It feels forced and false. He’d thought… he’d thought time would have resolved this. Clearly it hadn’t.

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“I owe you an apology,” Scully begins, forthright but contrite. The opposite of the woman who stood across from him in a hallway, defiant and furious and absolutely unwilling to listen to reason.

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“For what?” he asks. He’s not above making her say it, because he won’t toy with her but he does want to hear it from her.

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“I didn’t trust you, not when it was most important.”

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He meets her eyes, bright and clear against her now-healthy skin. He holds her gaze, searching for a key or admission or clue, and she holds it for almost as long as he’d thought she would. But instead of saying more, she looks away. 

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He sits back. “I forgive you.”

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Her gaze snaps back to his, and now he feels that she’s trying to read him.

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“Sir—”

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“Dana,” he says calmly, finally sure enough to say it. “Why don’t you tell me what this is all about?”

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“I came to apologize,” she insists. “I was prepared to accuse you of betraying Mulder, of betraying _me_ , and you only ever tried to help.”

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“I’m not interested in your apology,” he says, although that’s not strictly true.

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“I’m returning to work tomorrow, and I want to say that although I hope you will eventually forgive me, I am willing to work toward re-establishing the trust we previously shared.”

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“I’ve already said that I forgive you.”

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She shakes her head. “It’s not that simple.”

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He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingertips together. “So why don’t you explain it to me?”

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“Many months ago, I came to you with a… proposition.”

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He raises an eyebrow. “I remember.”

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“I don’t think I appropriately reckoned at the time the emotional changes that might make in me.”

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He barely breathes. He doesn’t dare hope.

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“As a rule,” Scully continues, “I am not a person to take great leaps of faith. The trust I extended to you was more than you had earned, but I felt compelled by circumstances to do it anyway. I was unprepared for the vulnerability I felt, sharing this secret with someone I could not fully trust. I began to worry that I had made a mistake, but the damage was done.”

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Nobody ever said the truth doesn’t hurt. Still, as Scully shifts uncomfortably in her seat, resettling herself as he’s seen her do countless times during debriefings in his office, Skinner has to stop himself from reaching out to her. She takes a breath and continues,

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“Then, when Mulder and I discovered there was an unidentified party in the FBI working with the shadow conspiracy, it fell to me to figure out who. I came to apologize because I let my emotions get the better of me. I was so scared for Mulder, when I found the first shred of evidence that it might be you, I… I just accepted it as truth.”

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“I understand.”

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“No, you _don’t_ ,” she implores, and it’s the most emotional he’s seen her in a long time. Maybe ever. “For years, I have demanded the truth from every situation. I have refused to believe anything Mulder presented without proof, I have railed against the cover-up of Melissa’s death, I have refused to do less than face head-on the truth of my illness and what I knew to be my impending mortality. And yet… I saw fit to condemn you based on the thinnest shred of evidence.”

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He doesn’t have to ask why. He can read the fear in her eyes, and it shakes his foundation. Tough-as-nails Dana Scully is frightened… of the way she felt about _him_. He absolutely does not feel equal taking control of this situation, but he knows she can’t either. And years of FBI bureaucracy have taught him how to bullshit through almost anything. So he raises an eyebrow, and settles back into his armchair.

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“What do you want me to do, punish you?”

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Her eyes widen, just a bit. “It’s what I deserve.”

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It’s the last thing he expected her to say. It’s the only thing that makes sense, given the direction of the conversation. He doesn’t know how to reconcile these two facts, but out of the attempt, the murky shape of things begins to emerge. “Scully, I don’t know…”

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“Dana,” she whispers, and swallows. “Just once more.”

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She never says _please_. She never has to.

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“When I come back to work tomorrow, this period of my life will come to an end. I understand that and I’m prepared for it. But what you’ve done for me… I need you to help me just once more. I need this to end, so we can start again the way things were supposed to always be.”

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“This wasn’t a mistake,” he says, and knows when she stays silent, that she doesn’t agree.

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“It… can’t go on,” she answers finally.

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He glances away briefly, not willing to engage in a battle he knows he can’t argue his way to victory. Question: What happens when an unstoppable force meets an unmovable object?

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Answer: One of them finds out they’re not as strong as they thought they were.

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Skinner clears his throat. “Do you trust me?”

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She averts her gaze, just slightly, and bites her bottom lip. He doesn’t have to count the passing seconds to know that too many are going by. Finally she shakes her head. “I can’t—”

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“Dana,” he interrupts. “Why are you here?”

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“To apologize.”

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“Get out,” he says, rising. She’s clearly startled, hands coming apart from their prim fold on her lap.

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“Skinner—”

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“Get out,” he repeats, more forcefully. “Your apology is not accepted.” He watches her face scrunch up in anger as she decides, internally, if she’s going to fight with him.

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Anger wins. “Five minutes ago you said you forgave me.” She doesn’t get up from her spot on his couch.

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“You can’t apologize for not trusting me if you still _don’t trust me_ ,” he answers, snatching his tumbler off the side table and finishing his drink in an angry swallow. He doesn’t understand how someone he barely knows ( _but he knows her so well, SO well_ ) can infuriate him the way she does.

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He doesn’t understand how not having her trust can wound him so cleanly, how the ache can feel almost physical in its clarity. Her distrust burns more than the sipping whiskey he just treated like a double shot of tequila.

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“I never said I don’t trust you,” she answers hotly. 

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“You can’t say that you do. It’s all the same.”

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“It’s not.”

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“Tell me how,” he demands, almost shaking with fury. Three weeks ago she collapsed into his arms and he felt the vis vitae drain from her as her eyes closed. Three weeks and a few hours ago she stood proud and defiant in a university hallway. Nine months ago she unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, took off his glasses, and kissed him with an urgency that belied her calm, rehearsed proposition.

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He doesn’t understand how to live in a world where everything she said to him, all the things she shared with him alone, could be the lie she’s saying they are.

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But the things she’s shared, in the spaces of the words she _hadn’t_ said…

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She hesitates.

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“Show me,” he amends.

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Her eyes flutter shut, and for a moment he thinks she’s going to refuse that as well, but then she slides off the couch to her knees, palms open. She gazes straight ahead but inhales a steady, deep breath and lets her eyes flutter shut.

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Her simple acquiescence shifts the very air in the room, mutating the emotional tension into a tension of an entirely different sort. He gazes down at her, on her knees and waiting patiently, and he feels taller and stronger than he has in years.

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Briefly he thinks of how quickly he moved to catch her as she fainted at the hearing, the way he felt like his arms would not be able to support her small frame. Now he feels a surge of certainty that they will.

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“Get up,” he commands, surprised at the scratch in his voice. As Scully’s standing he adds, “and take off your shirt, pants, and socks.”

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Silently she obeys, undressing efficiently but not quickly. He hasn’t asked for a striptease and she doesn’t give him one—what she give him instead is unwavering eye contact and an unreadable solemnity to her face.

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“You can stop this at any time,” he tells her carefully, watching her face until she nods in silent understanding.

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Her silence could be unnerving, but he is used to silence for every mood. He appreciates the way she is careful in the words she chooses to share with him or anyone.

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She stands in the middle of his living room in just her bra and panties, which had clearly been chosen with care. He takes it as a clear signal and presses forward.

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“I believe you know where the bedroom is,” he says. It’s not a question.

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She surprises him by taking his hand and leading him there. The space feels cold and disused as they step inside, until Scully switches on his bedside lamp and bathes the room in a soft, intimate light.

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“Bend over,” he tells her, and when she doesn’t move to do so, he grabs her by her (still too) small waist, turns her around, and forces her shoulders down until, on instinct her arms shoot out to brace herself against the mattress. She looks over her shoulder at him with a glare but he pins her there with a look.

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“You were ready to accuse me of treason,” he says. He traces the fingertips of one hand up her right thigh. “Of collusion.” He lightly slaps the flank of her thigh before moving on, up to her natural waist, to the ridge of her spine and then down, back toward the waistband of her panties. “Of betrayal.” He slaps her left ass cheek with the other hand, clearly surprising her.

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“Yes,” she says, her gaze straight ahead, voice emotionless the way it was in the hearing.

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“Present your evidence,” he says. He steps closer to her, settling his hands on either side of her ribcage, not holding her down. She’s pinned anyway, and they both know it.

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“The man that Mulder…” she breaks off, searching.

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“Ostlehoff,” he supplies, very interested in maintaining plausible deniability.

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“While he was surveilling Mulder, he made several calls to the bureau. We knew that whoever he was talking to would have to be involved in the oversight of the X files. I called Holly Patton and asked who was at that extension.”

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“What was it?” he asked. It’s not the time or place to voice his suspicions about the truth of Blevins' suicide, but information-gathering can take place any time.

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“0130.”

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“That’s not my office’s direct extension,” he says. “That’s a ring group for all the ADs and section chiefs.”

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“Yes,” she says, and he spanks her. The only indication that she even notices is her sharp inhale of breath. Otherwise she remains motionless beneath him.

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“Did you assume I was the intended recipient?”

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“Yes,” she confirms, and he spanks her again. It’s oddly unsatisfying, so he pushes his foot between her calves and forces her legs further apart. She drops from her hands to her elbows.

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“Was there any way to tell for sure who answered?”

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“Agent Patton didn’t seem to think so.” He knows she’s expecting another hit, so instead he skims his fingertips across her lower back, toward the waistband of her panties, and tugs slightly on them.

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In one sharp motion, he yanks them down until her spread legs stop their progress. It’s enough to expose the smooth, unblemished skin of her backside. Her head hangs slightly, and he places one broad hand on her neck to keep it there.

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“What other evidence did you have against me?”

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“Your interest in Mulder’s apparent suicide.”

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He smacks his free hand against the newly-exposed skin. “I care about the agents that work for me.”

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She takes a shuddering breath. “It was more than that. You believed that he had done it. How could you, unless you’d known that’s what they were trying to lead him to do?”

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Smack. “I believed it because I knew he was capable of it.”

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He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. Abject shock brings her head around to stare at him. “He’s not.”

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He uses the hand on her neck to force her accusing eyes away from him. She struggles, and he pushes her face down into the bed. “I saw him when you were gone,” he bites out, and the words are so harsh—too harsh. “I saw him when you were returned and nobody thought you would live. I saw him when you were in the ICU last month. Don’t tell me what he’s capable of.”

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The fight leaves her. But that’s not what this is about.

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“Tell me what else you used to damn me in your head,” he commands, before the interruption swallows the game.

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Her voice is shaky, like she’s trying to force herself to rejoin the conversation. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever forgive himself for saying something she was never meant to know. “You… you were in a position to observe our every move for four years.”

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He spanks her again.

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“You tried to convince me to inform on him my first year on the x files.”

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Again.

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“Mulder trusted you,” she whispers.

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Here it is. “The most damning evidence of all,” he says.

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“Yes,” she murmurs. “You’d earned his trust. It’s my job to protect him.”

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Skinner releases his hold on her neck and runs his hands symmetrically along her back, each hand mirroring the other as it moves up and down, over and around. “And how could you protect him from me, if I had a bargaining chip to use against you?” he guesses.

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He reads her shame in the way her head remains hanging down. “Yes.”

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“And you’d handed it to me yourself.”

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“I gave you the power to destroy us.” Her voice is growing stronger now, more sure.

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He spanks her harder than he had up to this point, and her whole body jerks with the movement.

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“And I _didn’t use it_ ,” he finishes, surprised at how furious he is.

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He feels more than sees her shuddering breath. “I was wrong.”

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Abruptly he pulls his hands away from her, pulling his t-shirt over his head. She stays where she is, slightly reddening bottom exposed and vulnerable to him. She stood in her living room and told him she does not trust him, but she was lying; he’s not sure how either of them ever believed it.

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“You damned me based on incomplete evidence,” he continues, unbuckling his belt and sliding it free of his jeans. “You failed to eliminate other suspects before making an arrest.” The jeans are next, hitting the cool wooden floor of his bedroom with the slightest of noises. “Your arguments wouldn’t have held up in court and they don’t hold up here.” His underwear he leaves on but the glasses come off.

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“You’re right,” she says.

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He sets his glasses on the side table and moves onto the bed. “Come up here,” he commands.

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She obeys, and he’ll be damned if it doesn’t send a jolt of arousal straight through his body. Crouched on his mattress on all fours, wearing only a thin cotton-and-lace bra, penitent and bending to his will—a Dana Scully he never imagined in his wildest dreams, and something he’ll never have again.

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He allows himself a moment to believe that he is the only person who will ever, _ever_ see her this way.

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She allows him to haul her over his mostly-nude body and drape her to his will. Briefly he considers the more traditional over-the-knees position, but fuck it. If this is the last time he’ll ever have her (and he knows it is; he’ll allow himself a lot but never that, the most dangerous illusion) he’s going to do it exactly as he pleases.

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So instead she ends up with her knees on either side of his thighs, and she tries to remain on her hands and knees until he pulls her down so she’s laying flush against his body, skin-to-skin in almost every place. With one hand lightly fisted in her hair, his other hand comes down to cup her bottom. 

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“Do you have anything to say to me?” he asks.

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She shakes her head, and he spanks her.

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“Nothing?”

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“No.”

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He spanks her again. And again. And again. Her fingers curl, nails digging into the skin below his collarbone, but she presses her backside into his hand as he continues with the onslaught. 

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“Not, ‘I’m sorry’?” he asks after a minute, and doesn’t wait for the response he knows in his bones isn’t coming. “Not, ‘I should have trusted you’?” The skin of his palm is beginning to tingle, her flesh beneath it warming from his touch, spreading outward from the places of impact. He can’t see her bottom but it’s positive it’s a pink that’s growing angrier with each impact. 

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He feels the most absurd urge to mark her permanently somehow. To spank her a new tattoo.

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“I—” she gasps out, and there’s a shuddering quality of her breath that gives him pause. Though he can’t quite say exactly why, his gut instinct is telling him something is off about the situation. “I can’t.”

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To his shock, he feels wetness against his chest and abruptly stops, realizing there are tears silently streaming down her face.

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It was never supposed to get this far. It was never supposed to be a real punishment. His hands come away from her, hanging uselessly in midair for a moment before closing around her arms to—what? To shift her off his lap? To lift her up? He doesn’t know, but Scully seems to:

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“Don’t you dare,” she gasps, digging her fingernails in harder. Still he remains motionless, until she lifts her head. Her eyes are a bright, bright blue as tears stream out of them, but her emotions are so close to the surface that he can tell this is somehow a relief for her. But even as he registers this, trepidation creeps into her expression.

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It’s worry—worry that he’ll deny her this and send her home. As if he’d ever be able to deny her anything.

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He makes a split-second decision and growls, “Don’t tell me what to do,” reproaching her even as he follows her orders. He brings his left hand up to that side of her body and slowly eases back into the rhythm he had found before, on the other side of her body now. “Are you sorry for what you’ve done?”

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Finally she manages a coherent, “Yes.”

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“I want to hear you say it. You _can_ say it,” he says, modulating his tone to something softer but still unyielding. “I know you can.”

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“I can’t.”

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He growls before he realizes he’s doing it, increasing the intensity of the spanks he’s delivering almost on instinct. “Say it.”

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“I’m sorry,” she chokes out. “I’m sorry. I—” she takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I should have trusted you.”

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“Again,” he instructs, not slowing his pace. He thinks he finally understands what’s happening.

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Her fingernails dig into the skin of his shoulders as she chokes out, “I should have trusted you.”

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“Ask me for my forgiveness.”

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“Please,” she whispers, and time stops. He stops. His heart stops. Something shifts for him. 

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“You have it,” he pledges, re-joining reality. “Scully, _Dana_ , I forgive you.”

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Her arms come up to wrap around his neck and she pulls herself forward so she can bury her face in his shoulder, soaking it with tears. He cups her head to his body with one hand and shifts the movements of his other, moving from spanking to a gentle massage of the hot, chapped skin of her bottom. As the minutes stretch on, though, his movements slow until finally he’s just holding her securely against him. Giving her something to ground against. It’s what he’s best at.

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Her tears last longer than he expects, and he knows they’re not just for the way she treated him. He wonders if she’s allowed herself to cry a single time since entering remission.

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Suddenly, he notices the room is silent. Scully has gone still against him.

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“Tell me something true,” he says, and for once doesn’t wonder if she’ll answer.

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“I didn’t want to die, but I knew I would,” she whispers, and it’s louder than a scream. “I don’t know what to do with the reprieve I have been granted.”

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She’ll never say that out loud again. He knows it with every fiber of his being, every instinct of his humanity. He holds her close to him and rolls them both so that she’s cradled by the spring of the mattress and protected on every other side by his body. 

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He rests his forehead against hers and she opens her eyes, blinking to look directly into his gaze. Like magnets, their lips meet. She always did communicate best without words.

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Her bittersweet kisses tell him that tonight is the end of what they’ve shared. They tell him she’s worked through the future they have to face, both separately and together, where he is her boss and she can’t be anything but another employee to him. That in granting her forgiveness, he has given her the ability to come to terms with the secret they share and come out the other side.

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She will move on, her kisses say. Thanks to him, she will move on.

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Her kisses do not tell what will become of him.

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End file.
